


Browser History

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Fluff, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Smut, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5943025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor's intentions were entirely noble at first. Hoping to cheer Clara up, he turned to the internet for advice on how to please a woman, and <em>oh gods, that hadn't been what he'd meant at all...</em></p><p>It was no surprise, then, that when he found the small, pink object, he had no clue what its true function was. But as he watches and learns, he understands, and realises that he may have had his prayers answered...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Browser History

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partly inspired by the exchange between the Doctor and Osgood in The Zygon Inversion:  
> "Don't look at my browser history."  
> "Whoa!"  
> "Yeah, I said don't."
> 
> The rest is entirely my friend's fault.

Honestly, his intentions had been nothing but noble. Really. He would have been willing to swear on his life that he had been pure of heart when he had set out on his quest, no matter how cliché that sounded. 

It had been weeks since Clara had stepped back into the TARDIS, weeks filled with bickering, tears and bouts of sadness that seemed to last for days. He had wanted nothing more than to put a smile back on her face, unable to cope with the knowledge that she was still aching for the man she had lost, and so he had been desperate to do whatever he could to try and improve her mood. Just that morning – or, at least, the time at which she emerged from her bedroom each day, sleep in her eyes, dressing gown fastened loosely around her waist – she had burst into tears when he’d presented her with a cup of tea in her favourite mug, sobs consuming her as she wept, irrationally, over the gesture. He’d been baffled, maybe a touch accusatory, and in the ensuing row, the mug had been chucked at the wall, the tea had been spilt, and he’d been left in the console room, blinking in bewilderment as he wondered what in Rassilon’s name he’d done wrong _this_ time. 

He checked the TARDIS systems nervously, his actions furtive as he planned his approach. Clara was ensconced in her room safely; the chances of being interrupted were slim to none, and he was free to do his research in peace. Well, relative peace, sentient space craft excluded. Sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration, he typed the words into the search bar onscreen carefully, fingers dancing over the keyboard expertly.

_How to please a woman._

The TARDIS seemed amused, burbling at him suggestively, but he ignored her, pressing enter and considering the search results with interest. The top article sounded promising, and he was surprised by the ease of his quest, amazed that the solution had been so easy to find. 

“ _How to please a woman in bed._ ” Well. Clara was in bed, wasn’t she? She seemed to practically _live_ there these days, venturing out only for the most scintillating sounding planets and the occasional meal. He sighed. All he wanted to make her happy, so this article seemed like an obvious choice, sent by the gods, the easy answer to all of his problems. He clicked it expectantly, scrolling down and taking in the pictures that accompanied the words. If truth be told, it seemed awfully wordy for him, so the pictures definitely added a helpful touch, and he leant in to the monitor so that he could examine them more closely. He frowned. _That doesn’t look particularly pleasing. I think it might hurt Clara if I did that. That would be_ very _uncomfortable._  

He clicked back a page and scrolled down the results list, chewing his lip. Ah, videos. Much more suitable for his limited attention span. He squinted at the top choice, assessing how likely the short clip was to fulfil his needs. It _was_ the number one result, and humans and their primitive algorithms meant that it was likely to be relevant. Besides, the title was in all caps. There was no way he _couldn’t_ click on that, was there? 

The TARDIS made another noise, and he could’ve sworn that she was laughing at him. “Shut up,” he muttered. “It’s for _research,_ for _Clara.”_

He clicked the video and took in the scene. A woman, lying idly on a bed, and… oh. Oh, no no no. He closed the window in horror, his face flushing beetroot red. Time to rethink the search string.

 _What do women enjoy?_  

He pressed “search” with some trepidation, clicking the top result and scrolling through a nauseatingly pink website, grateful for the list format and the ease with which he could access the information.

**#1: Netflix and Chill.**

He knew Netflix. Everyone knew Netflix, especially following the Great Monopoly of 2113, but for now… well, it sounded like a feasible option, like a _positive_ option. He was no expert, but he thought even Clara could enjoy a… _a box-set_? Was that what they were calling them? He sighed and made a mental note to ask Kate next time he saw her, heading off in search of the TARDIS cinema room, locating it, after some considerable searching, somewhere past the library. Fumbling around in the dark for the remotes, he located them with ease and picked them up, pressing the power button hopefully but achieving nothing. They felt unusually light and he shook them experimentally, realising abruptly that the batteries were missing. He could just sonic them, but the mystery of the disappeared power cells was enough to pique his interest, and the Netflix idea was replaced by a desire to solve the case. 

He turned on his heel and stomped down the corridor to Clara’s room, barging in without knocking, consumed by the problem at hand.

“Where are my batteries?” he snapped, Clara squeaking in irritation under the duvet, her face turning scarlet as she emerged. He smirked a little at her ruffled appearance, but decided not to comment on it, needing her onside. 

“Doctor!” she exclaimed furiously. “ _Knock before entering!_ ”

“Why?” he asked in confusion, her anger unanticipated, and he remembered suddenly that she was very strict on the subject of knocking before entering. It was something to do with the boring thing that she called “politeness” and he called “a waste of time.” 

“Because… I… _just do it._ ” She snapped, sitting up slightly, her breathing ragged and uneven as she scowled at him. 

“Have you seen my batteries or not?” he asked again, his tone apologetic, and a curious expression overtook Clara’s face. 

“N-no,” she stammered guiltily, her voice curiously high-pitched. “Definitely not.” 

“Sure?” he queried a final time, his expression gentle, and she shook her head insistently. “Well, can I check if you’ve got any?” He didn’t wait for permission, opening a drawer at random and groping around in it indelicately, his hand closing around a small cylindrical object that seemed promising. He slipped it into his pocket subtly, noticing then that Clara was spluttering in indignation at him.

“I… you… no! Get out! _Shoo_!” she flapped her hands at him and he backed off remorsefully, realising that he should really start listening to her boring ideas about politeness 

“Fine, fine,” he conceded, backing away. “Sorry. Go back to your… bedding.” 

With that, he escaped back to the console room, pulling the object from his pocket and examining it with bemusement. _Well,_ he thought to himself. _That certainly doesn’t_ look _like a battery._ He pressed the button on one end, and it began to buzz in his hand, tingles shooting up his arm as he stared at it in bafflement. It seemed dangerous, that much he was sure of, but he pressed the button again idly, watching in horror as it began to vibrate even more intently. Taking out the sonic, he jabbed the buzzing thing idly, finding nothing untoward in the readings and feeling somewhat more reassured. It was clearly a human thing, that much was evident, and he wondered if he could improve it slightly. He jabbed it again more determinedly, focusing his thoughts on his end goal, and when he was done, he felt a stab of pride. Whatever it was for, it was better at it now. He still wasn’t entirely sure _what_ it was for, but he was sure it would be really, really superb.

Possibilities for tinkering exhausted, he realised he should return it to Clara. But then she would know that he’d taken it without asking, and he knew how angry she would be about that, and so he decided to bide his time. He waited patiently until she slipped from her room in search of food and then returned it to her drawer innocuously, hoping she wouldn’t notice his illicit borrowing of the item.

Just in case she had, he spent the night trying to refine his online searches and swearing quietly in Gallifreyan at the TARDIS whenever she seemed vaguely amused by his actions, before stretching almightily and wandering towards the kitchen in search of coffee at a time he figured was approximately morning. As he sipped the bitter liquid absentmindedly, Clara walked stiffly into the kitchen, her face drawn and her expression curious. He noted her odd, unnatural gait with some amusement, determining it would not be prudent to ask about it, and settling instead for a safer topic.

“Morning…” he said nervously, taking a swig of coffee as she switched the kettle on. “Sleep well?”

“Mm,” she managed after a moment, reaching for a mug and flinching. “Fine thanks.”

“Why are you walking funny?” he asked curiously, the words slipping out unbidden, and she glared at him furiously.

“I’m not,” she snapped irritably. “I’m walking _fine._ ”

“You look sort of… stiff.”

“Well I’m _not,_ ” she insisted firmly as she spooned instant coffee into a chipped mug, and a bright idea struck him.

“Why don’t you have a massage with your pink thing? I improved it for you!” he exalted happily, sure this was A Good Plan, before remembering abruptly that Clara didn’t know that he knew about the pink thing. Dammit.

“Pink thing?” she asked, her tone dangerous and her eyes narrowing at him menacingly as she froze with the kettle held in mid air.

“Did I say pink thing? I meant-”

“That was _you_! You _bastard_ , you don’t _touch my bloody things,_ especially not… especially not _that!_ ” she squealed, her cheeks turning pink as she squared up to him. The effect would have been frightening, had she not been the approximate size of a Tic Tac. “How _dare_ you?!”

“Why?! You touch my things all the time!”

“Just… _ugh._ I swear to _god_ I am going to _kill_ you!” she shouted, storming out the kitchen furiously, her coffee forgotten, retreating to her bedroom to sulk. The Doctor could have lived with that, had the TARDIS not been in a smug mood with him, and he’d eventually stormed off to the library to follow Clara’s lead, curling up angrily in a chair with a book and whiling away what he hoped was enough time for Clara to cool down. Returning apprehensively to the console room, he busied himself with the monitors to pass a little more time, and it was then that he felt something hit the back of his head.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed reflexively, reaching up to rub the sore spot and finding a cold metal object caught in the back of his collar. As his hand closed around it, he realised he knew what it was, and he looked around for Clara, scowling.

“Oh very _funny,_ ” he spat as his eyes scanned the room. “Just throw your pink thing at me, how _hilari-”_  

The console room was empty, and the TARDIS beeped at a way that suggested snickering in amusement. He swore under his breath.

“Really mature, well done,” he said sarcastically, already heading towards Clara’s room. “Materialising objects at my head. _You are a super-advanced time capsule, not a practical joker._ ” 

He hammered on the door to Clara’s room and then stepped inside anyway, throwing the pink object at her without even sparing her a glance. “The TARDIS thought it’d be funny to throw this at me. Here you go.” 

He turned on his heel sharply and stalked from the room before she could retaliate, sinking into the chair in the console room and sighing. He’d wanted to help Clara, and now all he’d really succeeded in doing was making her irater. _Well done Doctor. Ten out of ten there. Now she’s cross_ and _sad. Why can’t she just understand I am trying my level best?_

He was deep into his self-pitying, self-chastising inner monologue when he realised something was disturbing the silence, and he cocked an ear. There were curious noises coming from Clara’s room, that much was certain, and he felt confusion cloud his brain as he realised that she was moaning quietly. He frowned slightly; was Clara cross, sad _and_ in pain? He sighed, pulling the monitor round to him and checking the camera system, flicking through the feeds until –

 _Oh, gods._ He bit down on his lip, tasting blood, but that barely registered in his consciousness. Clara was laid on her bed, her legs splayed, and the pink thing was between her legs. Her back was arched and sweat was beaded on her forehead as she moaned, one hand clutching the sheets tightly as the other worked the pink thing slowly and expertly in small circles. She moaned again, and the Doctor felt desire pool, irrationally, unwanted, in his groin as he understood, abruptly, what the pink thing was _for,_ and that he’d _touched_ it, touched something that had been so _near_ to her, and oh for _Rassilon’s sake,_ she couldn’t keep doing _this_ , it was just unfair on him. She couldn’t continue to do that in his proximity, it wasn’t… _appropriate._

He switched the feed off unwillingly, trying to work out how he could perhaps raise the issue with her. Pondering the issue, he typed into the search bar:

 _How to control a control freak._  

The pictures that came up were intricate, explicit, _beautiful,_ and he groaned with desire, 

 _Tying her up isn’t going to help,_ he mentally chided himself. _That’s just going to… oh, gods, don’t think about that._

He sighed angrily, closing his eyes and banging his head against the console in frustration.

“This is why humans shouldn’t have the internet,” he said aloud, trying to act normally in the hope that it would restore his body to equilibrium. “Filth. Pure filth.”

From several rooms over, he heard Clara moan for a final time, and noted, somewhat perversely, how content she seemed. 

It was then he realised that perhaps, just maybe, the issue didn’t ever need to be raised…


End file.
